


Haze.

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, bruce banner feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-29
Updated: 2012-07-29
Packaged: 2017-11-11 00:51:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/472635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce's life is a haze.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haze.

Everything about the Other Guy is a haze. More and more sensory memories come flooding back to him as he lays half-asleep in the bathtub. A barrage of bullets like tiny pebbles, ears hurting from sound cannons, someone’s trying to blind him, someone else is trying to wear him down, wires all over his body, a cage—Bruce jolts with a start and takes a few ragged, deep breaths. He has a headache now, and water sloughs off of him as he stumbles to the medicine cabinet for some ibuprofen.

He looks up in the mirror, and squints in confusion for a second before he remembers who he is. Bruce Banner. Doctor Bruce Banner. PhD in nuclear physics. Honorary medical degree. He’d long since stopped calling himself the son of anyone. He pulls down on the bags under his eyes. Bloodshot, enhances the green on the edges of his irises. He had forgotten if that had always been there or if that was Him leaking through. His forehead is shiny with sweat, and his five o’ clock shadow completes the  haggard look. He touches his own face and smiles hysterically at the entirely human feeling of sandpapery stubble on his fingers.

Bruce was broken before the Hulk. That was the real secret. The hidden tragedy no one cared about after He started mindlessly killing innocent civilians. That was a haze, too; everything Bruce knew before the gamma exposure. Big knuckles, bigger bruises, cracked skulls, screaming (so much screaming, splits his head open), the sour smell of alcohol. He takes another deep, deep breath, so big he thinks his ribs will crack. The military picked one hell of a fuck-up, Bruce thinks as he sneers at his reflection. And he blamed them. They knew what he had been through, and they knew he already had more than one personality. They watched someone not-Bruce build a bomb, and wouldn’t listen to Bruce when he claimed he couldn’t do it again. Sometimes Bruce even thought that was the point. They wanted to fuck him up more—

He slams his hands on the sink. He has to stop this train of thought immediately. He closes his eyes and slumps back and slumps back against the wall, almost hyperventilating. He doesn’t have time to cover himself up when he hears someone at the door.

“Bruce?” Tony’s voice is like a lifeline, and he looks up at him from the floor. He must look like hell; Tony doesn’t look scared for no reason.  “Hey, Bruce, it’s alright—“

“Stop saying that.” He swallows and puts his head between his knees to center himself. “Please.” Conscious enough to say please, that’s not a bad sign. His hands tug at his own curls for something to feel. Tony’s hand circles on his back and he doesn’t push it away. He slumps his head on Tony’s hip and sighs into it. “Sorry.”

“You’re fine, big guy.” Bruce blinks away the fluorescent halo of light when he looks up and finds Tony is smiling at him. “You need to let him out or whatever I’ve got at least a dozen deserted islands bought out in my name.” He squeezes Bruce’s shoulder, and Bruce feels the knots in his stomach come loose. He hopes it never comes to that. He wonders if those were bought before or after his arrival.

He seems to be unable to stop nodding into Tony’s hip. He really wishes he could stop being so idiotic. “Okay.” Another deep breath. “Okay, thanks.” He rubs his eyes with his hands and blinks away the phosphenes dancing in front of his face. The wall shakes as Tony thuds into it to sit next to him, and Bruce lays his head on his knees sideways to watch his face. “You always going to find me, Tony?”

Tony mirrors him, head on his knees, mouth breathing into his. He faintly sees the curve of Tony’s smile. “When I need to.”

Bruce nods again and closes his eyes. Breathing Tony in is wonderfully human, too, and he can smell motor oil and sweat on his face, gritty and grounding. “I was almost there,” he whispers. He sounds so much smaller to himself. He opens his eyes to see Tony’s eyebrows still knit with worry. “I’m okay. Sort of.”

“Your permanent state of being,” Tony teases, and it’s enough for Bruce to give him a weak smile. Tony clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth idly. Bruce knows it’s because he has nothing else to say to him. “You need anything?”

Bruce stares at him for a long time, analyzing the pores of his face, the heavy fall of his eyelashes when he blinks, the bags under his eyes, the scruffy beard, and the purse of his chapped lips. “I don’t think so.” When he reaches out to shakily touch Tony’s face, it’s more grounding than when he touched his own, especially with Tony sighing against the skin of his palm. The thought makes him pull his hand away.

“What’s wrong?”

Bruce shakes his head and smiles meekly. “Nothing at all.”


End file.
